


What Mycroft Saw

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Appledore, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Helicopters, Holidays, John and Sherlock are both idiots from time to time, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, POV Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Sherlock's Hair, Smut, Sussex, cottage, mention of drug use, mention of retirement to Sussex Cottage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 10:37:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3974995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft's PoV from the helicopter leads to some heavy duty reflection as he watches the drama unfold.  He recalls watching Sherlock grow up, the challenges, the difficulties.</p><p>His position allows for some pulling of strings, some manipulation of events and people.  He wants to give Sherlock what he's been after all these years:  John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On the Porch at Appledore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day had been eventful enough. From a (tedious) Happy Christmas dinner event, to a verbal consideration of marital reconciliation, to drugged tea, and from there to the abode of a heartless, manipulative Magnussen where things progress from disturbing to tragically worse -- enter the musings of Mycroft from the vantage point of the helicopter as it approaches the scene of the crime, committed by a questionably high functioning sociopath. Oh. My.

Rotor noise was relentless, thwacking, reminiscent of war, of quick rescue, of imminent attack, of delivery. The ability to hover remarkable, to lift off vertically, covering ground and history from an angle above the earth. The helicopter, floodlights blazing, arrived on scene to find a lifeless Magnussen, bleeding out from a fatal head wound while two onlookers, one wide-eyed, paralyzed into oblivious catatonia, the other resolute, face set, serious, acutely aware. From the loudspeaker, “Put your hands up.”

Sherlock reapplied the safety and tossed the gun a few meters away, then knelt, raised his hands to the back of his head. He glanced at John, frozen, pillar of salt, unbelieving. _“John.”_ It was only after his name was repeated and the loudspeaker issued the command again that he slowly complied.

Mycroft, in the front seat of the helicopter, headset in place, his shocked eyes riveted, saw. _He saw much_. 

“Oh, Sherlock. What have you done?” A broken whisper was punctuated by a hard swallow.

The proud, skilled detective, head of curls, dark, tall, angular, now a law-breaker, murderer, stood humiliated as witnesses arrived. The gun would bear his prints, he was doomed, almost as good as convicted already. His life of freedom, brilliance, benevolence, philanthropy - evaporated with the single pull of a trigger.

But Mycroft saw more than that. He saw the same curls morph before his eyes into light brown, tighter, shorter, a lions mane on a ten year old head. The ten year old child prodigy, unappreciated, misunderstood. Innocent. Sentiment, he reminded himself, was indeed a weakness. And his single biggest weakness stood in front of him, a lifetime of memories that called to him while his heart swelled, splintered, burst apart.

He recalled the day he was introduced to Sherlock, brought home from the hospital, his mothers arms free to embrace him while his father carried the new baby, a brother, into the house. When his mother pulled the hat off the baby, Mycroft touched the blanket, reached to the hair, mussed it. There were a few curls even then, slicked by nurses in the hospital into a ridiculous mohawk of hair across the top of his head. Newborn blue eyes fixed on him, and he was hooked.

++

Oh, he would complain about him, fuss at him, ignore him, goad him, argue with him. And oh, the arguments were a glorious, provoking, challenging thing. He won easily until Sherlock was school-age, and then it became even more satisfying, a bit harder. Already, there was critical thinking rearing it’s developing head, and a competitive drive manifested in a blazing temper when he lost. He learned to cheat effectively, without getting caught. The sibling banter drove their parents crazy until they insisted on separating them.

Mycroft saw much, watching the intelligence surface, the ability to manipulate, the expressions that told him that Sherlock was seeing it all, taking it all in, understanding and putting pieces together of his surroundings. And then he was accepted into uni, moved out when Sherlock was about seven. Home only on the random weekend, he still saw the development of the formative years of Sherlock. He saw the solitude, even then. Sherlock had almost zero tolerance for friends, especially ones who deigned to act age appropriately like the children they were.

Mycroft regarded intellect, saw the little amount of work Sherlock did, the school grades that were effortless when completed, the not caring that occasionally led to incompleteness and failing marks. The grounding and discipline from parents who applied undue and undeserved pressure, who expressed disappointment, never satisfied or encouraging at either boy’s effort. Mycroft ascertained the creativity that would have excelled beyond wildest imaginings with minimal guiding, into applied chemistry, practical matters that could have become of properly channeled work. He knew Sherlock picked up the violin because his parents wanted him to learn piano, knew he harnessed his energy, even at age eight, into being the antithesis of what his parents wanted.

++

It was one of these weekends home that had Sherlock talking with him about Father Christmas, about the gifts, the process. When asked the Gods honest truth, Mycroft hadn’t the heart or the courage to tell him, and suspected he already knew anyway, so he said nothing. When Sherlock asked him to post a letter containing his Christmas list, Mycroft agreed, carried it back to school, forgot about it.

Until Christmas holiday. Christmas morning that year had begun with an excited nine year old, curls lopsided from sleep, bedhead at it’s finest on his little brother, he thought, shaking his head. The family roused, tea brewed, and gifts were exchanged. As the last present was opened, Sherlock turned on the family. _“Where is it?”_ he asked.

And so ensued, to Mycroft’s horror, the desecration of Sherlock’s childhood. The mythical lie, the disappointment, the traumatic realization of a childish misbelief. Mycroft saw, from across the room, that he had made a grave error as the vibrancy of his younger brother deflated, lowered, shriveled up, and died. For a child of genius capabilities, his last vestige of childhood, gone. 

Later that morning, Mycroft retrieved the letter, crumpled and nigh forgotten in the bottom of his backpack, opened it, reading a list of only one item. Microscope. He invented a financial need, something his parents didn’t even question, pocketed the money, and ordered the best he could afford. When he handed it to his brother, there was the silent acknowledgement that Mycroft would continue to take care of him, and whatever that meant would yet to be seen.

++

Mycroft saw the social ineptness of his brother, and heard about the teasing at school which started verbally, progressed to physical bullying. Finally, in year 6, there was an altercation, and Sherlock was removed, placed into a private boarding school instead. His academic mind was thus greatly stimulated, but his social isolation persisted, grew, became what he knew. Brilliant. And alone. Mycroft saw him cling to being alone, heard him rationalize it, watched him disintegrate socially, at a school where he was no longer picked on, but never affirmed or appreciated.

Mycroft had connections to a student at the school Sherlock attended. And so information flowed, even as Mycroft graduated from uni, he stayed abreast of the stories. Most of the information was regarding academic excellence and social awkwardness. His sharp, inventive mind was on a fast path to a full scholarship at University College London.

And then Victor happened. A manipulative, heartless bastard of a student, a few years older than Sherlock, who cultivated his loneliness and exploited Sherlock’s innocence, taking that cruelly, without a thought, and then Victor became out of control. Victor discovered a need for power, and achieved it through verbal and physical abuse, through sexual dominance, was hurtful, callous, and unfeeling. He introduced Sherlock to cocaine, and was enthralled by Sherlock’s exquisite reaction to it as he became sharper, clearer, manic, physically adventuresome. Mycroft didn’t hear about this until it was too late, damage done, and Sherlock was trapped.

By this time, Mycroft was out of school, building and growing connections. The wrath of Mycroft Holmes was enacted upon young, evil Victor, who disappeared without a trace. Unfortunately, Sherlock was left alone and without closure, he turned more fully to cocaine. He dropped out of school, developed a market of addicts beneath him, enough to keep him supplied and supplying, earning enough money. Just enough. By the time Mycroft found him, he was strung out, coming down off a bad few days run. Never telling their parents, Mycroft secured a driver, collected Sherlock from the streets, and delivered him to an expensive, confidential rehab. The curls on the head of his brother as he left him there at rehab, screaming curses down on Mycroft, bounced angrily as he yelled, shook. The shaking of the curls during the throes of withdrawal, Mycroft could only imagine. He would have been relieved to have missed the hair, damp, sweaty, clinging to face and neck over blotchy skin as the process of detoxification worked its evils.

++

Mycroft observed from above the ground, watching the curls, the sunset of an era. It was and remained, a brilliant mind, astute in ways that his own would never come close to. Brilliance that surpassed his own in observations, deducing, making connections. And brilliant like the way the floodlight reflected off chestnut rings of auburn curls. Even if he was able to salvage some of the penumbra of damage, he knew that this afternoon was a turning point, a tipping point, in the life-line of his brother.

Mycroft recalled the first umbrella he’d ever owned, a gift from Sherlock one Christmas after rehab had cleared his mind.

He saw, as the floodlights of the helicopter bounced in the hovering, the kill shot Sherlock had fired. There was no question of intent. It was, indeed a kill shot.

Mycroft remembered the relapse with the cocaine, after Sherlock had stumbled into the early stages of working with Greg Lestrade at the Yard. He remembered the short haircut that had been given him at the second rehab stint, where he and Greg had vouched for his need, his history, and his support after he would be released. Greg made no promises, but told the elder Holmes that he would give Sherlock another chance if and only if he stayed clean.

++

Mycroft saw to it that Sherlock was watched. His position in local government - and beyond, truth be told - allowed for certain privileges. CCTV cameras were in place all across London, and Mycroft had only to install a few new ones that would show Sherlock’s movements much of the time. It allowed him to watch the location and activity, monitor relationships, consider risky endeavors, protect when needed. And it had been needed on those danger nights, when Sherlock’s boredom and need for excitement drove him to dangerous behaviour, to seek out suppliers and supplies. He utilized Greg Lestrade on occasion, located a flat and convinced Mrs. Hudson to consider renting to his brother, after a hefty security deposit, once he found a flatmate. And he enlisted Mike Stamford in that particular endeavor, a mutual acquaintance who could be trusted. Mike would prove to be a valuable connector. And Mycroft remembered exactly when he was briefed about one Captain John H. Watson, MD. 

Mycroft, with very little digging, was able to quickly view John’s service record, his previous relationships, his alcoholic sister, his distant Scottish parents. He read between the lines, found a history of solitude, aloneness, bordering on the edge of depression. He considered his brother, thought he could do worse. Not expecting it to last, anyway, he didn't give the pair too much thought. Little did he know.

He saw them now on the cement porch of Appledore, two men so misguided and confused about the other. Even now he vividly remembered John Watson standing up to him, calmly, in the deserted parking garage. He saw a complimentary other half of his brother, and when John turned down his fees for keeping tabs on Sherlock, it was yet another opportunity for him to wonder to himself, “Oh Sherlock, what have you done?” He would say it a few times over the next few years, as he watched Sherlock and John get themselves into hot water, traipsing across London and vicinity after serial killers, searching for clues, courting danger. And courting each other. Except that both of them were bloody idiots and didn’t realize it, or if they did, Mycroft saw them clueless and oblivious. They were suited, they were interested, but they resisted. And their friendship had, essentially, set the bar too high for anyone else. John became accustomed to living on adrenaline and wholly stimulated by adventure and challenge, while Sherlock had walls up so high to anyone but John Watson, that no one could get remotely close. They were unreachable, unattainable, and unparalleled - Mycroft saw that they would both search for something impossible. Mycroft _saw._

Mycroft saw it all. He saw their valiant attempts to disdain the other, to creatively avoid a relationship that had forged on the night John shot the cabbie, protecting Sherlock even then from himself. Mycroft saw them reluctantly conform to their misguided perceptions - Sherlock had done it in school before Victor, when he actually went out on a few dates with women, mostly to please his parents. 

Mycroft eventually would come to see Sherlock in rather separate time periods, the before John and the after John. John brought out the best in his brother, from astuteness to high energy to bold connections and creativity. And John smoothed out, somehow, nothing short of miraculous, the rough edges in Sherlock Holmes. Who on earth ever would have guessed that. 

And when he and Sherlock had developed an exhaustive plan regarding Moriarty - well, as exhaustive as he could be, seeing as Sherlock absolutely could never know what Mycroft had as the back plan, the back up, back up plan - there was always the chance it would be successful, more than they had hoped for. A plan that would not devastate John. A plan that would not endanger Sherlock and keep him away for two years. 

And Mycroft saw the plan crumble and fail and fall apart around them all. Plans A, B and C became almost unacceptable D. And E. And when John grieved, truly mourned, Mycroft saw that as well. His resolve almost wavered when he would watch footage of the brokenness of John Watson at the cemetery. Mycroft saw the humanity, the sentiment, cursed the failure he’d helped set in motion. Neither Holmes brother tolerated failure well.

His plan did not involve John meeting someone, planning to marry. 

Mycroft saw Sherlock kill a man, or at least arrive in time to see the smoking gun, and while said man deserved it - and worse - in order to protect John, and give John the safety and security Sherlock thought that John thought he wanted, needed, deserved. Mycroft saw. He saw both John and Sherlock consider the expectations of those around them, of Sherlock avowing marriage to the Work, of John building a poorly based relationship with Mary, of the wedding, the coming baby. 

Mycroft vividly remembered the contrast of Sherlock’s pallid face against the crisp bleached white of a hospital pillow after being shot, anemic from blood loss, from the wound inflicted unjustly, from his best mate's wife, for Gods sake. The pain in his eyes, physical, emotional, so tired, weak that even his curls were lackluster - Mycroft saw. And he recalled the snap of fire in Sherlock’s eyes, even debilitated as he was, when he reminded him that he could have stopped John from marrying her, that he had discerned it was certainly no match made in heaven. Sherlock had not really answered him, it was all water under the bridge by that point. John had made his bed, as it were, and then Sherlock had been gravely wounded. Mycroft noticed. He had watched his brother for too many years not to perceive. It was tangled, these two.

And now Mycroft saw them, outside Appledore, the lights shining off one auburn head of curls, one blond head barely touched with silver. He saw trouble for the near future - and longer. _Maybe._

++

“Oh Sherlock, what have you done?” had been uttered many times. Mycroft had been looking out for him his whole life, mostly silently, from the background. He doubted Sherlock ever knew, and would never know. And now, Mycroft saw vividly, clearly, that his reign of protection was ending. Mycroft’s position of power in Sherlock’s life was likely over. Queasy, Mycroft watched the lights catch in the curly headed countenance of his brother. The helicopter was landing. There would be an arrest, handcuffs, the proud demeanor of his brother would be devastatingly painful to watch. And yet, Mycroft would watch it all behind stoic eyes, would see, would observe, would - if possible - telepathically will his brother the strength he would need to survive the short jaunt to conviction for murder.

He had one final card to play, and as the chopper landed, he sent off that final text executing yet another stage. A crapshoot, a gamble, even for him. The die was cast and the collateral damage would become apparent.

Bobbing head of curls, standing on the patio at Appledore, Mycroft longed for the comforting days of childhood, before hard choices and sentiment would craft in them both, a tapestry. A tapestry of scars, lumps, bumps, mistakes. And beauty. 

The rotor blades wound down, slowing, stilling, finally stopped. The bounce of Sherlock’s curls morphed back again from the ten year old head that Mycroft had envisioned, to his brother, kneeling on the hard cement in expensive trousers, hands clasped, awaiting judgment.

Mycroft blinked, hard, knowing and seeing too much, then swallowed, unbuckled from the seat and stepped out onto the grass. Not a word was exchanged between the brothers as Sherlock was, indeed, handcuffed and taken away.

++

Magnussen may have deserved his final fate, but the government still frowned upon vigilante justice. At an uncomfortable trial, his lawyer had demanded retribution. Mycroft, as expected, had seen to it that the sentencing was fair on some terms, but there was a backdoor, a loophole, which allowed a special reassignment. 

++

Sherlock had asked for a moment to say goodbye to John. Mary had hugged him, and Sherlock would shortly be off to God knows where in order to avoid prison. Mycroft obliged, stepped away from the men, wondering if they both realized the immensity of this, their “final” goodbye. And wondering if they suspected Sherlock was going off to his death. He wondered if either expected a last minute rescue, a white knight on a white horse. God, Mycroft thought, Sherlock would despise that metaphor.

So they professed their love for each other using only their eyes, body language, and words left unsaid. The spoken words were absurd, John talking about a scan of his unborn daughter, and Sherlock commenting that his name would suit a girl. And the ridiculous men parting after a handshake, _a bloody handshake_ , for God’s sake, while Mycroft saw through the unverbalized message of that scene.

And so it came to be that Sherlock was seated on the plane on the tarmac, and that as the plane taxied to the skies, Mycroft launched his all-encompassing Moriarty video, completely false, in order to free his brother. Mycroft had executed with fine precision the digital Moriarty takeover, and wheels were also set in motion, seemingly apart from Mycroft’s direction, that allowed for an abbreviated sentence. And so when Mycroft’s phone rang to alert him of the breadth of the video, the digital attack of TV, radio, signage, internet, he saw that just perhaps, just perhaps, this _might_ eventually work. 

And now, case solved, Sherlock had a new sentence, punishment, repercussions. He would never be permitted to work directly for the Yard again. Lestrade had been devastated, for Sherlock more than himself. Mycroft on the other hand, just said, enigmatically, “Just wait. Things are not necessarily what they appear.”

Mycroft had seen the latent solution, and had a plan, a contingency plan, of sorts. A spoken word to a PA on the other end of the mobile, and the house in Sussex, purchased. The bee hive, for delivery next month, with bees to be delivered at a later date. A gamble, again, and specific events would have to occur before claiming success. It would sit empty for perhaps as long as a year, Mycroft knew. The deed, in two names: Dr. John H. Watson, and W. Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned. Happy endings for everyone!


	2. A Cottage in Sussex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has secured a home, delivered two unsuspecting men to it, and leaves the rest of the story up to them.
> 
> Mycroft's (omnipotent, fictional) connections are a writer's dream, yielding unlimited plot possibilities that would otherwise be hard to legitimately explain.

Some months later, two cars were dispatched separately, directions would be relayed for packing an overnight bag for a fortnight, to each individual that would be ferried therein. One car went to Baker Street, where Sherlock was first requested, then cajoled, then threatened, then forced into the car. The other car, to a meager bedsit that was beyond depressing, just desserts, John thought, for a failed marriage, botched relationship, impossible parenthood. His bout with mumps as a teen had rendered him sterile, and he had been willing - conforming - to expectations, to avoiding the very thing he thought he could never have with anyone, to take what Mary was offering because he thought he would never have any other option. One particularly bad fight and Mary spilled the truth, that she was carrying someone else’s baby, that John was as trapped as he could be, that she would never let him go, would financially ruin him. And then he informed her about his sterility. It shut her up into blessed bloody silence and drove her right to an attorney’s office where all was resolved, all ties cut.

John didn’t even protest the collection into the car. It was obviously Mycroft. And John was apathetic. John’s car arrived first to the cottage, about an hours drive from London, and he was given an envelope upon arrival. Inside, it read, **Make yourself comfortable. All will be answered shortly.** It was unsigned, of course, Mycroft’s penchant for the dramatic.

The second car arrived. John heard the motor idling out front, opened the cottage door to watch Sherlock disembark the vehicle, shoulder a bag, he looked angry until he saw John at the entrance, softened a bit. He paused at the edge of the road, the sidewalk just a narrow bit of stone leading to the front door. While John watched, the door wide open, he took in surroundings. An overgrown garden trellis stood off to one side, overgrown vines climbing, meandering. The cottage door was anciently solid, bespoke care in the choosing and the maintenance. The vegetation was lush, but years of abject neglect created an overgrown jungle just waiting for a patient hand and time. For someone to care about it. The car door shut, driver raising one hand in dismissal as it pulled away.

Sherlock turned, faced John. It had been a long time since they had spoken, and that itself was a brief, casual, chance meeting on the kerb near the Gardens. It had been a flippant hello of sorts. John had been with Mary, swollen belly, an awkward greeting and a hasty, empty retreat.

John watched Sherlock evaluate the garden, cottage, home, his wise eyes taking in so much more than was actually visible. His heart ached at the twisted paths that had brought them to this point, and it was more convoluted and tangled than the gardens.

Finally, his eyes raised to John’s and his steps grew closer. With each approaching footfall, the lump in John’s throat grew, larger, swollen, tight.

They hadn’t really spoken in a long time, after such closeness and shared adventures. So many events had taken them in such paradoxical directions, life-changing circumstances, and it seemed, to John, that they were nearly strangers. And yet they weren’t, not really.

He stepped aside as Sherlock neared the door.

“Any ideas here?” he asked as Sherlock entered the foyer, and the silence fell, almost oppressive.

“I have a few.” He brushed against John’s arm as he passed. “How is your... daughter?” Sherlock knew the child to be a few months old now, but that was all.

“Other than not mine, you mean?” The pain in John’s voice over his thick words was terrible to hear. 

The abrupt and almost heavy silence was telling that Sherlock didn’t know that particular detail.

John took a deep breath, plunged on. “I had mumps as a teen, left me sterile.” He closed the door behind Sherlock as they looked at the room. “Divorce was final a few months back.”

“She figured it out?”

“Well, we had a rather spectacular fight, she mentioned the baby wasn’t mine. Which I was already well aware of. Mary didn’t hide anything after that.” Sherlock put down his pack, took in the room. “It would have been suspected after she was born, anyway, the olive colored skin would have been a bit obvious. She named her Chloe.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s better. I couldn’t really... I mean, she shot you... I don’t think I could...” his voice trailed off. 

There was silence, neither awkward nor comfortable. John cleared his throat. “She accused me of unfaithfulness, as well.”

Sherlock’s eyes found his, waited.

“With you.” The gaze held, the pause becoming a bit more intense, the need to say something, break the moment finally bringing John’s words forth. “I guess, she was more or less right.”

Sherlock’s gaze narrowed, his head tilting very slightly to the side as synapses and neurons fired, processed, analyzed, reconnected. “Did I miss something, then?” This was delivered with the slightest of twitches of the corner of his mouth.

John watched him, carefully, wondering how skittish he might still be. “What, wasn’t it good for you?”

_“John.”_

He glanced around, then, uncomfortable with the subject. It would likely be revisited when they were ready. But he wasn’t quite done, and extended a hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Married to the work. Name’s I’m not his date.” Sherlock swatted his hand away, with a gentle push, the tingling of touch resonating for them both.

“We’re idiots.”

Once John had separated from Mary, he had only considered moving to Baker Street for about the ten seconds it took for him to realize that the pain and scars were deep, that the love he felt for Sherlock was entirely too complicated and too raw and fresh. Instead, he took a bedsit, worked long hours, trying to fill the emptiness. “It’s been terrible. But I think I’m finally... I don’t know... _done_ with it.” 

He picked up the envelope that the driver had given him, handed it to Sherlock. “From my driver.”

Sherlock read it, nodded. “Mycroft, obviously. Creepy black car for you too?” He looked around, taking in the cottage a bit. It was small, cozy, quaint kitchen, dining room, sitting room downstairs, angled staircase at the back of the house, leading to presumably bedrooms upstairs. From the outside of the house, there was a balcony visible out back, overlooking likely more overgrown garden. The decor was a bit dated but clean, equipped, done in hues of light blue, aubergine, and brown, wood paneling, simple window treatments. “I got a verbal message that I am an idiot. And to check email once I had arrived. Which of course I checked from the car. Nothing of interest.”

John walked to the back of the first level, peering out the window. He smirked, a bit, then. “Hey Sherlock. Know anything about bees?”

++

Once the discovery of the hive was made, John watched Sherlock’s almost visceral, although quiet, reaction. His shoulders set, resolute, and his body soon flumped elegantly into a chair. He toed off shoes, steepled his fingers, folded his arms across himself, retreated into a world of his own. While it had been a number of years since they’d shared much of their entwined lives, John still recognized the body language. He investigated the kitchen only long enough to secure a bottle of water, noting a few classic tea blends, kettle, and exited the cottage from the rear door, leaving Sherlock to his own devices.

The back gardens John would have described as carefully overgrown. Clearly, they had been tended to regularly enough that plantings and such were visible, not overgrown so much that they would need complete removal. A bench lined one of the edges. The bee hive, upon closer inspection, was in good repair but inactive, a fact for which John was grateful, as he was allergic and sans epi-pen. It was a rather cloudy day, overcast but not moist in any way. There were a few homes visible, nothing terribly close, and no signs of life at any of them other than the occasional vehicle on a distant road. John pulled on the water, considered his mobile, checked email.

Apparently the message about checking said email was for him. There was a message from Sarah, the coordinator of the office at which he worked. It read simply,

“John, I was approached about two weeks ago about your surprise getaway, and instructed to cover your shifts starting tomorrow but keep the entire dealing a secret. Enjoy your time away, see you in four weeks. Guess I should mention that your paychecks have been subsidized, and will still be coming - let me know an address to post them.” It was signed simply, _Sarah_.

John looked around, looked toward the cottage, wondered what four weeks of paid holiday would look like. It was beautiful, quiet, and inside was both the greatest success and the greatest tragedy John had ever encountered. He emptied the water bottle down his dry throat, scooted sideways on the bench there in the shade, took a deep breath, and listened to the garden grow.

Sherlock found him there an hour or so later, still, unmoving, deeply asleep enough not to hear Sherlock approach. He turned his steps toward the empty hive, took a brief stroll across the grounds and out the back gate. Turning back, he noted the charm of the cottage. It reminded him greatly of the childhood vacation home of Aunt Veronica, one of the brighter spots of good memories of growing up. Before he had been such a disappointment, before his focus became academia, before he had forgotten how to play. The memories came flooding back, then, of him and Mycroft running in a meadow, squealing at each other, sliding down an incline toward a small creek. He must have been three or four, because Mycroft was also young enough to have enjoyed himself. In the same time span of wondering if Mycroft remembered it, he was certain that he had. Interesting. And the bee hive, a throwback to one of Sherlock’s major experimentation as a young teen before the hive was dismantled by harsh parents. Another devastating, disappointing parental mis-step. Mycroft was away at school, then, but apparently word had gotten to him anyway.

A car idled up the road, then, loud exhaust injecting artificial sounds to the natural setting. He saw John stir, stretch, sit up. He turned his steps in that direction, feeling hesitant, cautious, very uncertain. Paperwork he’d found inside the house was in his pocket, an interesting revelation.

“So.”

Sherlock looked at John, then, wondering where he stood. For all his brilliant deductions, at present John was unreadable. There was pain just behind his expression, pain of failure, Sherlock would rightly assume. John was a proud man, a soldier, a healer - unable to win, fix, or lead his way through his recent relationship with any success. Maybe that was enough, for now.

John watched Sherlock’s expression, then, related the email he’d received from Sarah. “I’ll drive you nutters before the weekend is out, though. Not sure what I’m supposed to do for four weeks. If I’m even staying. If you’re even staying...”

“Come see the rest of the house, then.” Sherlock didn’t wait for a response, led the way back toward the porch, the back door, and up the once-polished, now-worn wooden stairs. There were four rooms upstairs, two of them bedrooms, an office, and a library. John, as Sherlock expected, was drawn to some of the book titles at eye level. His favorite authors, then - Grisham, Cussler, le Carre, others. His eyes cut to Sherlock’s face, puzzled, as Sherlock watched. Another shelf, then, chemistry texts, complicated classic writings, Voltaire. Early medical text works of Hippocrates, Einthoven. Books on beekeeping, complicated scientific journals about plant identification and uses. John got the message, then, clear as day. This was a library put together for them.

“Sherlock,” he said slowly, waiting until their eyes connected. “Whose house is this?” John’s voice was steady, quiet, seeking. The unease he felt earlier faded away, melted into something more, something he had perhaps been in search of a long time.

In answer, Sherlock removed the folded paper from his jacket pocket, handed it over.

John unfolded the deed, read the names, stopped. “What?” He raised confused eyes to the steely blue ones staring back at him.

“It’s ours.” He ran a finger along the spine of the books then. “Congratulations on home ownership.”

“Why ...? Did Mycroft do this?”

“I would imagine so. And I have no idea why. Well, I can deduce ... I believe we are supposed to retire here. Eventually.”

“You saw the date on this deed?”

“I did.” John watched as Sherlock smiled, shaking his head sadly in remembrance. “The day after we said goodbye.” He vividly recalled the words not said on the tarmac. “I’m glad they didn’t name her Sherlock.”

“I’m glad you can find humour...”

“John, whatever else we were, we were always great at inappropriately finding something funny.”

“True.”

“And I don’t think we’re done yet.” He gestured to the deed, the home. “We could go back to sharing living arrangements.”

“I’m not going to be your domestic partner.”

“Why not?” He perched on the edge of the library table. “I think I’m a pretty good catch.”

“Well, that makes one of you.” John tapped the spine of the book on beekeeping. "Care to explain?"

"Childhood interest. Had a hive, once, until it was determined my explorations were not to be supported." He shrugged, dismissed it. "Bees are, nonetheless, very interesting."

"I'm sorry it didn't work out. For you and the bees." It could have been spoken in jest, of course, but John meant, and conveyed, every word.

There was an intense look as Sherlock paused, the upcoming words carefully chosen and crafted, and John knew something remarkable would likely be uttered next. “Why were you willing to accept Mary’s baby as yours?”

“Other than the fact that it would be the only way it would ever happen for me?” When Sherlock made the expression as if to argue with him and point out all the alternative methods available, John held up a hand. “Yes, I know. There are other ways, but none that exactly fell in my lap like this did.” He arched an eyebrow, too, feeling rather emboldened and figuring that the filter might as well come off early in the evening. “And she was the only one who I could tolerate, after spending so much time with you. Everyone else, without exception, would have eventually bored me to tears.” John shook his head at himself, at the two of them. Truly they had been idiots. He stepped closer to Sherlock, then, wondering if the darkening haze of his (spectacular, limitless) eyes mirrored the desire he felt in his own as he stared, intense, a predator. “ _Well done_ , you. You’ve ruined me for anyone else.” 

And with that, slowly, surely, he approached, his hand reaching out to steady them both as he touched Sherlock’s arm. The musculature was tense under his sleeve. There was slight hesitation as he drew his best mate of so many years closer, their intention clear, and the first meeting of lips was firm, gentle, pressing. Skin on skin was made more remarkable as the emotion swelled beneath, evident by the intake of breath, the leaning, the focus. John’s eyes wanted to drift closed yet he was unable, entranced at the sight of Sherlock, finally. Steady blue eyes met his, conveying messages of lust, and chemistry, and need. They pulled apart, warm breath mingling and commingling. John felt a slight tremor in the hand that reached around behind him, easing their bodies close through layers of fabric.

John found the touch centering, calming. It was as if the uncertainty, insecurity had finally settled off him, leaving the same solid strength from before. Maybe, they would finally get the chance to discover the strength of the bonds of friendship they’d already forged. It kind of felt, to John, as if he’d come home.

++

A car pulled up out front, then, and John moved through the house to answer the door. A delivery-person carrying an order of takeout and two bags of things from the grocer’s had arrived. Few words were exchanged, and when John tried to pay, the young man simply said it had already been taken care of.

“Looks like meals are courtesy of your brother, too.” John rummaged through the bags, pulled out a bottle of wine, unpacked hot Chinese food, dished a couple of plates, and enjoyed a few bites, not waiting for Sherlock. John had no idea what his eating habits may be currently, but figured probably still not quite industry standard.

The plate in front of Sherlock filled with food but did not empty much. He sipped some of the wine after offering a toast “to home ownership”, which sounded rather odd, crossed his legs casually at the ankle.

“So, John,” Sherlock began, his head inclined slightly, expression rather amused, “what do you want out of this?”

“What do you mean?”

He snorted a bit. “Come on, it’s a simple question. What do you want here?”

John met his level gaze with a cool one of his own. He would speak his mind, but he certainly wasn’t about to do it first. “I am not driving the crazy train here. I am, at present, wanting to finish this Chinese. It’s pretty good, by the way, and ... I want to enjoy a glass of wine with a long lost mate.”

“So, crazy train, a reference to whom?” He was still amused, and John was pleased about that. 

“You. Your brother. Take your pick.” He played a card, tentatively. “You remember the references, always ‘Sherlock Holmes and his sidekick, or his blogger’ Always.” He took a sip, himself, again, pushed the plate back. “I’m along for the ride, at least for a bit, it seems.”

“You always deserved more credit than that, you know. You _always did_. And you deserved more than that with Mary, too.” He picked up their plates, set them in the sink. “Care to join me? Out back again?”

John topped off his beverage, led the way onto the porch.

“When I said I was sorry about Mary, I meant sorry it hurt you. I was so jealous of her, you know. But I'm not sorry it's over.” John watched him, but his gaze was elsewhere, taking in the garden hive, view out back as dusk was settling in over them. “You deserve better. And you deserve better than me, too.”

"I think I have a say in this discussion.” He considered his words, not in a rush. Even though it had been a long time since they'd really talked, they were still mates, with years of history that bonded them, with a matched-enough intellect that made them compatible. John saw, assimilated, much more than he let on, and sensibly knew when to back off. He had been called dependable his whole life, for the very reason that he acted wisely, considered his options, was built, from blond hair down, of good character.

Which was why it was not all that surprising when he set his glass down, nudged Sherlock’s leg with his foot to get his attention. “Actually, I think we completely and wholeheartedly - and finally - deserve each other.”

Sherlock was miles ahead in his mind. “Why didn’t you contact me when you and Mary split up? Seems that might have been high time to regroup.”

“I know you knew we split up.”

“I did.” Pointedly, he agreed. “I didn’t know about the baby, though. It’s a shame, really. You’d have made a great parent.”

There was a smirk starting on John’s face, then. “Yeah, keeping someone out of trouble, chasing after them, arguing, cleaning up after them, patching up injuries... I guess you would know, yeah?”

“I cleaned up a bit for you, too.” Magnussen, the name hung in the air between them, unspoken.

“Got you out of a job for your troubles.”

“There are other ways to be a consultant.”

“I’m sorry about that, though. Damned shame. Big loss for the Yard, too.”

He gestured dismissively. “Your blog still generates business.”

“What?”

“You haven’t been on it lately.” John shook his head. “I’ve taken enough cases to keep me in cigarettes and pay the rent.”

“You. Are actually writing a blog.” He was incredulous. “ _My blog._ ” John’s head tipped back as he laughed, unable to stop the wondrous reaction. “Are you writing as you, or impersonating me?”

His eyes sparkled in merriment, too, as he answered, “I tried impersonating you but couldn’t dummy it down enough.”

“Git.” John smirked, then, knowing shortly he would have his laptop connected to blog site. If nothing else, it would be a creative way to pass a few hours time. “Oh, and Sherlock?” He waited until not only had Sherlock answered with a rumble in his throat but had turned to look at him. “Congratulations on quitting smoking. Because as of _right now_ , you have officially kicked the habit.”

Recognising the Captain Watson tone of voice, again, and being slightly intimidated, still, Sherlock swallowed, realised it was a serious order, said softly in response, “Yes, sir.”

“Good man.”

“And a good catch, too.” 

++

The chill of the evening dew chased them back inside, but neither had sat down. Instead, they turned toward each other, hands brushing lightly over face, brow, teasingly into blond locks and curls, respectively. A light kiss began and morphed into a heated meeting of tongue, desire, a battle for dominance where neither particularly wanted to win, but to share the battles along the journey. Sherlock eased back slightly, his breath tight, feeling John trembling with desire and frustration. John watched him with dark eyes as his hands fell to belt, zipper, flies. A joint effort managed to free John of clothing, and there were moans of indeterminate origin as Sherlock’s hand closed around him. Their mouths met again, heat building, tongues meeting insistently. John’s hand fell to buttons while he tried rather pathetically not to rut against Sherlock’s hand. Finally chest to chest, hardened muscles meeting through flushed skin, John paused long enough to mutter, “This feels fantastic.”

A throaty laugh answered, “If you like that...” and Sherlock bent a bit, his arms drawing and arching John’s back as he kissed collarbone, nipped at pectoral muscle, traced rib borders, and dropped to one knee.

The sight made John’s heart skitter sideways in remembrance, not at all a pleasant association. His hands clasped behind Sherlock’s arms, insistently pulling, trying to get him back up, standing and yet were ineffective. Sherlock sensed, saw, that something was awry, and balked a moment. John was shaking his head, his hands still firmly guiding the other man to a fully upright posture.

“What? Something’s wrong?” Sherlock asked, his voice softly tentative.

“You know, the last time I saw you on your knees....” he swallowed hard, recalling the terror and dread on the patio at Appledore, the finality of the gunshot, the impending doom. He could almost sense the whirring of the helicopter and recall the wind generation kicking up bits of grass, vegetation. John’s voice was thin, tight, stressed. PTSD was a terrible bedfellow, cropping up unexpectedly, and, like now, following an odd trigger. Sherlock’s hands, long and gentle, were at the top of John’s thighs, felt the hammering of pulse there.

Much of Sherlock wanted to push through this, to make John stand there and take it, replacing bad associations with good ones. And he knew it would be very, very good but perhaps at a high cost. “It’s ok, there are lots of other options. Perhaps we should relocate upstairs?” John was both frowning and nodding, grateful at being understood.

They adjourned to the larger of the two bedrooms. “I’ve never... I’m good with... but I'm not sure I want to...” John began.

"Conversations with your patients are typically more direct, yeah?" Sherlock asked, eyes sparkling in amusement.

John laughed, feeling self-conscious. "Hard to imagine, isn't it?"

“I know. We don’t have to, right away.” John stood naked, unashamed, erect. “But just to be clear, you have issued a challenge for me to make you want it.” His hands came up along John’s chest, rubbing over shoulders, down muscled biceps. “I’m going to make you _beg_ for it... for me.”

“Oh god,” John’s throat was dry, his voice soft. His medical mind categorized previous associations such as pain, perforation, anal tearing, soft tissue damage.

“Stop.” Sherlock’s lips pressed in, seeking the heat and warmth of John’s mouth, trailing over cheekbone to temple. “Turn your damned brain off. I know what I’m doing. Do you trust me?” The soft question spoken in low baritone hovered in the air. It was more than a physical query, but emotional, intellectual, relational.

“Can I answer that with a percentage?”

“Greater than 50% is rounded up to a yes, John.”

“What have I done?” he muttered as Sherlock left him standing while discarding all remaining clothing and flouncing onto the bed.

“Game on, then.” Sherlock patted the spot next to him. “No worries, we have options,” he said again. At John’s concerned expression, he grinned, capitulating, “Well, perhaps I should clarify, there is no lube and no condoms, so some of the options are going to have to wait until we visit a pharmacy.” At John’s hesitant expression, he continued, “Unless you brought them along?”

Chuckling, John did some exploration of his own, and the smoldering heat that had threatened in the other room flared into much more. Hard muscle sought more, and he found great pleasure in Sherlock’s mouth. First the kissing, heated, intense, searching for more. And then when his mouth trailed down his chest, stopping to admire, taste, adore the sensitive area over his ribs, and drifted lower, John felt his very breath catch. He watched until he couldn’t any longer, his hand and his voice issuing a warning of impending release, and Sherlock actually took him deeper, suction applied, his hand exploring bollocks and further. The orgasm, over too quick, John thought - it had been a bloody long time - was powerful, nearly sacred.

He drew Sherlock’s head back to his own, tasting himself and the unique musky scent of them both. His hand drifted lower, and he could tell Sherlock was close, nearly a few strokes was all it took to propel him over the edge, his voice keening, body tensed. Clinging tightly, both of them, satisfaction and fulfillment settled over the hazy aftermath, a warm, comfortable realisation that, indeed, they were home at last.

++

Sunday afternoon, and they had mostly closed up the house, ordered a cab for just after suppertime. For now, it would be a weekend getaway when John wasn't working and when Sherlock was between cases. There was less urgency now that his caseload was primarily of the non-urgent variety. There was even discussion of Sherlock taking a part time Professorship for on-line students, which would free him up even more, in case things got fantastically interesting with the bees. John vowed to install an epi-pen at his earliest convenience.

Of more urgent need for attention, at the moment, was John, who was on his back flat on the bed, a sheen of sweat, his arms held over his head, mostly voluntarily, by the long fingers of Sherlock's left hand. His right hand was busy attending to an oversensitive nipple, and he followed up with tongue, slight nip of teeth, drawing another sharp intake of breath from John. They were both naked, engrossed in a battle, both overly stubborn and both becoming closer to giving in rather than achieve orgasm without partner input. Sherlock's challenge had been reissued, threatened, and as he felt John's limbs tremble, he thought he might have him. Not touching him, not at all, anywhere below the waist, had just about driven him to the point of desperation. But John Watson, soldier, doctor, domestic partner whether he wanted to be or not, seemed to have the upper hand. Patience had never been one of Sherlock's finer points, and he was ready to release John's wrists when John cried out.

"Enough! Oh God, I can't... Please Sherlock, you've got to... _Please._ " And so, a tender smile on Sherlock's face - of course, it was helpful that to the victor belong the spoils - he released Johns arms, drawing the bottle of surgilube and a foil packet from under the pillow. A bit of the urgency was replaced with outright longing but less demanding, knowing that satisfaction was imminent. Sherlock angled his mouth over John's clavicle, drawing in skin, firmly, strongly, intending on leaving a mark.

"You want to roll over?" Sherlock asked.

"Not especially." And so Sherlock eased a pillow underneath him, back on his haunches, an electric look passed between them, holding the connection. A few preparatory strokes and Sherlock poised above him, waiting for permission. Biting his lip just a bit, John nodded, reaching behind to pull him close and angling his pelvis slightly.

"God, just relax, will you? Not a firing squad." Sherlock snickered, trying to help, but the anticipation had John more uncomfortable than it ought. He took John's hand, placed it against the top of his own thigh. "Give you some control, here, on how much..." And while Sherlock had spoken, John angled up quickly, pulling, and the broach was accomplished.

A short gasp from John, then, and they both waited long seconds, until he had actually relaxed, a deep breath finally, and there was a bit of wonder in his face along with the smile. "Ok, just... move slow, yeah?"

A few thrusts was all it took and the heat built again, both clinging, a hand reaching between them toward John's shaft. The trembling was mostly on Sherlock's part as he reigned in the intensity and demands of his body - _transport, not so much_ , he realised at present - to be as gentle as possible. But John moved, slowly urging him on, meeting him until the sounds of their breathing was interrupted by a few louder moans, expletives, "please, now" (John) and "holy shit you're amazing" (Sherlock). 

Some time later, as the sweat and other fluids were cooling on their skin, the two found themselves laying, satisfied, completed, fulfilled, on their backs, watching shadows made by leafy branches play across the wall.

"I should shower before we leave." Sherlock's long fingers traced a line down John's shoulder, circling the well-healed wound.

"Yeah, you're kind of a mess. Sorry." John couldn't have helped the grin if he'd wanted to.

He waited until John looked him in the eye. A lot of years had played in to their ease and comfort of the moment, and he wanted to convey his gratitude. "Thanks for trusting me."

The smile was as genuine as the clear blue of John's eyes. "I can honestly say that it was my distinct pleasure."

++++

Epilogue:

The CCTV camera installed along the main street in Sussex picked up two familiar forms walking side-by-side toward the coffee shoppe. It was early morning, although Mycroft wasn’t watching live footage. Elbows barely brushed together, he saw as he watched, the two men sharing conversation. If he cared enough, he would bring in a minion who could read lips, but he didn’t think it necessary. Sherlock’s collar was turned up, of course, scarf visible, hands relaxed. His curls bobbed as they walked, slightly damp, just out of the shower, Mycroft presumed. There was a spring in his step, a lift to his carriage, the smile or laugh as they chatted was quite genuine. The camera angle caught them from a distance too far to see much initially, but they drew closer and then just past the lens. Well placed, then, Mycroft smiled to himself in silent congratulations.

But it was in watching John that Mycroft was sure. The smile that hadn’t reached his eyes since before the fall was back, tiny crows lines at the edges of both eyes crinkling. There was an obvious weight off of him, his shoulders thrown back, strong, confident. Much was revealed to the observer, provided the observer was seeking it, in the way John looked at Sherlock - the intensity of the eye contact, the way his gaze took in the tall form, flicking quickly over torso to belt, the smile deepening and _knowing_ as they reached the door of the cafe. Sherlock held the door as John stepped through, and then hesitated just long enough to glance directly back at the small, discreet camera. 

And, smiling, he winked.

++

fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Name's Sherlock Holmes. And the address is 221 B Baker Street." (wink)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.
> 
> One of my favorite camera angles from HLV is from behind the head of Sherlock Holmes as a child and Mycroft's expression inside the helicopter.
> 
> I need to credit earlgraytea68 for the Christmas disappointment story, out of Nature and Nurture. It was too canon in my head not to include.


End file.
